


muslin and lace

by Umbrella_ella



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Fluff, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24568099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/pseuds/Umbrella_ella
Summary: A Regency AU based on single word prompts.SSHG, rating subject to change.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 20
Kudos: 77
Collections: Hearts and Cauldrons Discord Members





	1. I: Frown

Hermione Granger spied him across the ballroom, sallow and drawn, a permanent frown etched onto his Roman face, the corners of his mouth turned down in a thin line of disapproval. It was as though he wished to be anywhere else in the world, and, as she watched a far more genial blond gentleman lean in and whisper to his companion, she was sure she was right. 

Her periwinkle dress, all lace and carefully spun muslin, wrinkled between her work-worn fingers as she watched the man's seeming irritation grow, his brow furrowing, marring his face. She would not call it handsome, but she saw that he might have been decent once, before the frown had set too deeply, before the glitter in his eyes had turned to flint and stone. A black silken cravat sat high upon his neck, his pale skin standing out starkly against his black evening clothes, his regal manner unmoved by the gale of laughter that pealed through the hall. Dark hair framed his face, lanky and long, and Hermione wanted desperately to see it pulled away, a ribbon knotting the rest of it back, perhaps, as though that might lend some brightness to his face. 

"Who is that, Luna?" she whispered above the pianoforte, which Ginny played deftly, oblivious to Harry's longing stare. 

The rings of people danced around, the tinkle of polite laughter and hushed conversation filling the hall, and Luna leaned in, rose water wafting close as she spoke in a musical lilt, "Severus Snape, he recently took over the Prince estate; rumor has it he is quite the stubborn man; I heard that the Abbotts attempted to call on him one afternoon, only to be turned away at once. He is a mysterious sort, most certainly."

Hermione found herself unable to forget the moody man in the corner, despite the Weasley sons vying for her attention and abusing her toes. She found herself casting curious glances to the corner, hoping that perhaps the dour man might be caught in a brief smile, but no luck was to be had. Her curiousity waned when, while dancing with Charles Weasley, the man's dark eyes snapped to her, glittering dangerously, as though daring her to look once more. His coal black eyes were unforgiving, and in the candlelight, they sparked and danced, as though challenging her. Hermione flushed beneath his heavy gaze, and she smiled too brightly at Charles, his red shock of hair too vivid and clashing with the velvet green evening coat. 

The Weasleys were a noble family, though their innumerable brood had proven difficult to marry off in recent years. Hermione suspected the youngest Weasley son to be enamored with Luna, however, and a quick glance to the far end of the hall proved her right, as Ronald led Luna in a clumsy attempt at following the music. 

Truth be told, Ronald was quite handsome and he and Luna were well-matched.

The music went on into the night, with laughter ringing out, and Hermione avoiding an insistent Mrs. Weasley; she was eager to marry off her sons, and Hermione, though she found Mrs. Weasley to be kind and her sons tolerable, did not care to be tied to them by marriage. She was no fool, knew that marrying for love was an improbability, one that did not come often, and rarer still to women of her standing. But even so, she longed for the adoration that she had read about between the pages of secreted books, those that her mother fluttered and huffed about, the ones that spoke of secret kisses in the moonlight, of dances where the hall disappeared and all that was left was the two of them, and man and a woman, unbound by the stares and whispers of others. 

Hermione felt a blush creep up her neck at her unbidden thoughts, and smiled anew at Charles in an effort to cast errant thoughts away, who only smiled back, keeping time well enough as the pair danced away the song. 

She did not look again, save for the moment she stepped out into the chilly winter evening, her wine-sweet breath hanging in the air in wisp-white clouds, cheeks ruddy with cold. 

The clatter of a carriage made him known as white horses drew up, Snape stepping up to the door as they halted nearby, and Hermione watched as the crowd dispersed, wandering away into the night, a clumsy attempt at ignoring him. 

His carriage was spacious, it seemed, and the night all but swallowed him whole, his dark evening wear casting the illusion that he was naught but a pale face in the winter night, taught with displeasure and disgust. He caught her eyes once more and Hermione shivered, a splinter of cold chilling her to the bone, and she stared back, curious, though Ginny would call it foolish, waiting for something she could not name. 

A brief nod, the barest upturn of thin lips, and the man had disappeared into the darkness, melting into the night. 

"Hermione," her mother called as their own carriage rounded the corner, "are you coming?"

In a moment, he was gone, and Hermione could do naught but watch his carriage trundle away into the night. 

"Of course, mother," Hermione spoke distractedly, watching as he trundled away.


	2. Handkerchief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a token of affection is offered, but in an unconventional way. 
> 
> For Ella (thebarsofhisplight) in the H&C discord chat. Thank you for encouraging me.

An errant curl stuck to the nape of her neck, and the heat of the spring sun pounded down on her back, rivulets of sweat sliding down her forehead to drip into her eyes. Hermione continued to pluck out the tender shoots carefully so as not to disturb the soil around the garden bed. Her basket was nearly full of the beautiful fruits of her work, their petals soft and dewy in the morning light. Bright yellow tulips lay in the woven basket next to her. She hummed as she worked, a tune on the pianoforte that she had heard Ginny play only last week, their last visit congenial and full of laughter. Her hands were laden with dirt, the soil clinging to the space beneath her nails, and she took a breath. It had been ages since she’d last been to a ball, and she desperately wanted to go again, to have the fantasy of being better of than she was, of being desirable, if only for an evening. The Weasley clan had not called on the Grangers in an official capacity since that night, and Hermione had wrestled with unbidden sadness at not seeing the familiar shock of red hair awaiting her on bended knee. She had been sure that she and Charles Weasley might get on well enough, but part of her was deeply glad that the young man had ventured to the wilds of Romania as opposed to the wilds of a discontented marriage.

Not for the first time since her sighting of him at the ball so many weeks ago, Hermione wondered after Severus Snape, the dour, lanky man who had offered her only the smallest smile. The man, mysterious and almost singularly removed from the small countryside community in which he resided, had not been seen since, but for a single trip into town, the refined fit of a new pair of buckskin breeches on his long legs causing quite the stir among the single ladies of the town. She imagined him, then, and was perturbed at her thoughts. She shook her head, as though that might rid of her the startling thoughts that had taken residence there. She worked until the sun was high in the sky, the weather warmer than usual, and the chickens had taken over the short walk towards the carriage path. Her hands were sore, but she enjoyed working in the yard far more than her mother thought acceptable; they had bade their last servant goodbye not last month, and lest the nettles take over the yard, Hermione had been tasked to work the land close to their home.

“Miss Granger, should a lady of the house be concerned with such matters?” A silken voice startled her, and Hermione found herself looking up at one Severus Snape, just as handsome as she had remembered, and she flushed at the state of herself.

“Pardon me, sir, I hadn’t heard you,” Hermione bade the pinkening of her cheeks dull, and continued, “and forgive me for being impertinent, but it is my family home, should one not take pride in it?”

Severus’ eyes glittered with mirth, a quirk of his brow speaking to his amusement, and she found herself rising, the apron tied around her middle was streaked with bits of dead grass, and, as she drew her palms across it, dirt. Hermione flushed once more at the state of herself. She knew she would get a talking to from her mother, but at the moment, with Severus Snape in front of her, she couldn’t quite bring herself to care. He looked stately and regal, his hawkish nose handsome and crooked upon his thin face, a wine-red cravat high upon his slender neck, careful fingers smoothing the dark green of his clawhammer coat.

“Please, sir, would like to take tea with us?”

“Mister Snape, if you please, and I would be delighted. I had rather hoped to speak to you.”

Hermione’s heart leapt in her chest, and she offered a smile, tempering her excitement with the trappings of appropriate manners that were owed to others.

“Very well, Mister Snape, let me show you inside.”

* * *

Hermione, now appropriately attired in a day dress of blue muslin, hair twisted up in an intricate knot, her hands scrubbed free of dirt, sat in uncomfortable silence as Severus Snape sipped tea from a bone china tea service, their last bit of finery in the world. Her mother sat quietly, having poured tea, but not daring to partake as she watched their guest with a fevered interest. Hermione, for her part, was very interested in the splinter that had wedged itself in the flat of her palm. Her head snapped up when Severus cleared his throat, and spoke, “I am afraid I have overstayed my welcome, Mrs. Granger, Miss Granger.”

He stood, and abruptly, Mrs. Granger stood as well, her china teacup slipping from its saucer and shattering, the quiet tinkle of china skittering across the wooden floor filling the quiet. Hermione leapt up, rushing to her mother’s side. She bent, plucking pieces from the floor, and Mrs. Granger gave a small sigh, disappointment riddling her face, and she swept out, presumably to the kitchen to fetch a tea towel. Hermione hardly noticed as Severus approached her, stooping to help her. His frame was tall and imposing, and should she dare to look up, she might see his eyes much clearer than before, their dark depths alight with a quiet sort of amusement.

She did not.

Severus was quiet, and Hermione felt every ounce of the silence between them. He plucked the pieces of china away with deft fingers, and Hermione gave him a small smile of thanks.

Pain throbbed at her fingertip and she let out an unbidden, “Ow!”

A bead of blood welled up at her fingertip, and Severus frowned, “Are you alright, Miss Granger?”

Her pride was bruised, then and she found herself pulling back, her finger stinging. Severus drew a handkerchief from his coat, his fingers offering her the carefully-woven white cloth, as though it were not a trinket of affection, but an offering nonetheless. Hermione stared, perturbed and blinking. Severus’ digits were long, tapered things, his left hand stained with ink, as though he’d only just written a letter that morning, and Hermione flushed when she pictured them gliding over the ivory keys of a piano forte, or perhaps one day, across her own fingers, their touch soft and gentle.

“Take it,” Severus said, his voice nearly a whisper, and Hermione met his gaze, surprised by the softness in his dark eyes, the ink-black wells of emotions betraying a tenderness that she was sure she was not supposed to take note of, “Please.”

Hermione found herself reaching out, her fingertips shaking as she closed around the fine lace embroidered with silver thread, the initials _S.S._ on the corner, plucking it from his grasp and trying desperately to hold his careful gaze as her fingers brushed his. His knuckles were soft and the backs of his fingers were smooth with the trappings of societal rules. Gentlemen did not sully themselves with laborious work, after all.

“I’m afraid my chores beckon me, sir,” Hermione rocked back up onto her feet, her dress rustling as she stood. Severus cleared his throat and stood too, his countenance nervous, suddenly, and he swallowed thickly

“May I write you while I am away in London, Miss Granger?”

The question jarred her, a flicker of tender adoration flashing in his eyes, and she could _see_ him then, could see past the sneering man in the corner of the dance hall, could see the true man that lay beneath the finery, and her heart sped at the notion of his fine fingers touching parchment and drawing a quill across it in a careful consideration of words that would suit her. Foolishly, she thought that perhaps he might write her and leave confessions of his secret admiration within the pages of his writing.

She nodded, her carefully arranged curls brushing the side of her neck, and she watched as his fingers twitched at his side, as though perhaps he might reach forward to touch them.

“Yes, you may,” she said, her voice catching, her fingers tightening around the lace of the handkerchief, bundling it in her grasp as he nodded sharply.

He took his leave quickly, bidding goodbye to her mother as he passed her by. Hermione gripped the handkerchief tighter, wanting this for herself, if only for just a while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a review, let me know what you think!


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